


Yuri Plisetsky's Patented Obedience Training

by letosatie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Ambiguous Relationships, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Coach Victor Nikiforov, Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Future Fic, Gen, I'm Sorry, I'm not completely sure the fourth wall is intact, M/M, Multi, Yuri Plisetsky is a Brat, Yuri Plisetsky's Potty Mouth, but Makkachin isn't alive anymore in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letosatie/pseuds/letosatie
Summary: alt title: how the kitten lover ended up with two pupsViktor Nikiforov and Katsuki Yuuri are such puppies sometimes.  Perhaps they'll behave better if Yuri trains them properly.“They’re like puppies,” Otabek says.  And he’s always saying meta shit like that, when Yuri can barely understand anything that isn’t related to skating.  It’s amazing they are still friends if Otabek is going to make no damn sense.  He goes on with his crackpot theory.  “You’re a cat person because you admire independence; that’s why you like me, even though I don’t make sense to you.”Yuri glares at him.  Stupid Otabek and his stupid mind-reading.“But Yura, you know what dogs are good for?  If you train them, they’re obedient.”Yuri’s gaze shoots worried to the kitchen door.  He hisses, “Are you telling me to train Viktor and the katsudon?”





	Yuri Plisetsky's Patented Obedience Training

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set 4 1/2 years post season one. It's my first YOI fic. It's birth was ably assisted by lost-in-a-paradox and lc2l.
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> ps Yuri Plisetsky is the best fight me
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> ***

Yuri Plisetsky is a cat person. His best friend Otabek is a dog person. Not that Yuri’s cat, and any cat they meet, doesn’t love Otabek. But Otabek finds dogs hugely entertaining, and Yuri finds them a little annoying and very needy. 

A cat makes a person work for their affection. 

Yuri Plisetsky lives to strive towards things.

Otabek also finds Viktor and Yuuri hugely entertaining. He comes the closest Yuri’s ever seen to cracking a smile around them. 

“Ugh,” Yuri groans, as Yuuri and Viktor clamber around him patting and stroking him in his new costume. They’re chattering to Yuri and to each other about what works (“Your ass looks amazing!” Viktor is exclaiming) and what doesn’t (“Will this piece on the wrist get annoying?” the katsudon wonders). 

Otabek, his boots insolently propped up on a rickety formica coffee table, cocks his head to one side and suggests, “Pat your puppies, Yura. Give them attention, and they’ll calm down enough to listen to instruction.”

Yuri flicks Viktor on the hand and hisses, “Stop touching it,” before he rolls his eyes at Otabek. “What are you on about, Beka?”

Otabek just shrugs. Yuri turns to the costume designer to begin firing off instructions and forgets about the odd statement.

Beka is here to play the clubs and he always stays with Yuri at Viktor’s when he visits. Retired Viktor, Coach Viktor, has happily gathered his skating pupils, or strays as he like to joke, under his roof in St. Petersburg. He says it’s to monitor the piggy’s diet and Yuri’s social media use but Yuri thinks he’s just sick of being by himself since he lost Makkachin. 

Later when Yuuri and Viktor are cooking loudly in the kitchen -- seriously how do two people make that much noise making dinner -- and Yuri is losing badly to Otabek at Tekken, Yuri's cat settles against Yuri’s hip and Yuri suddenly asks, “What did you mean before about my puppies?” 

Otabek smirks, and Yuri is aware he is one of the few people who have seen such an expression on Otabek’s face. It makes Yuri grin back. “Your coach,” says Otabek, “and your arch rival…”

“You’re my arch rival,” Yuri tells him.

“I’m your arch nemesis,” Otabek counters.

Yuri stares at him. It’s impossible with Otabek’s limited range of expression to tell how serious he is being. Finally Yuri kicks his ankle. “Fuck you,” he says, “I’m your downfall, not the other way around. Anyway, what about the old man and the piggy?”

“They’re like puppies,” Otabek says. And he’s always saying meta shit like that, when Yuri can barely understand anything that isn’t related to skating. It’s amazing they are still friends if Otabek is going to make no damn sense. He goes on with his crackpot theory. “You’re a cat person because you admire independence; that’s why you like me, even though I don’t make sense to you.” 

Yuri glares at him. Stupid Otabek and his stupid mind-reading. 

“But Yura, you know what dogs are good for? If you train them, they’re obedient.”

Yuri’s gaze shoots worried to the kitchen door. He hisses, “Are you telling me to train Viktor and the katsudon?” 

Otabek shrugs. “I mean if you want to. They’re already loyal to you, they already adore you.” Yuri mimes vomiting. Otabek ignores him. He says, “Viktor’s your coach and Katsuki’s a life member of Yuri’s Angels; they’re not going anywhere. And if you really hated it all, why did you adopt them? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in their company if they knew their boundaries?”

“By training them,” Yuri deadpans. “Like they’re dogs.”

“Just a thought,” says Otabek. 

It is a thought. And it won’t leave Yuri’s brain. Not while they eat dinner, not while they watch the anime they’re all hooked on, not after Otabek goes out to the club. 

It’s possible Yuri has googled ‘how to train your puppy’ on his phone.

Because Otabek is right, they are always on him. Viktor’s like an octopus, always hugging; and Yuuri’s like a first-time mum, you’d think no one had ever achieved “skating” and “age 19” and “made a left turn in the car” or “being blond” before with how each moment of Yuri’s day seems to be photographically documented and touted about as a groundbreaking accomplishment. Yuri’s always trying to scornfully shake them off, express his disinterest, make sure they’re aware how unimpressed he is. He’s studied his cat and can emulate her classic “you can’t sit with me” face.

And Otabek’s right. He did adopt them. A piggy and an old geezer are not just for the holidays, you gotta feed’em and walk’em the whole year round. 

Shit, they need so much help. They need Yuri’s help. 

Obviously, he can’t get a water spray bottle and spritz them when they’re bad. It’ll have to be more subtle... Oh... Yuri and subtle don’t have a working relationship.

Yuri decides to start with verbal commands. He can’t see his way to physical affection yet. The internet says to give clear, short repeated commands. Given his default mode in communication is disdain, he’s going to have to -- insert ugh-sound here -- say some things in a bright tone of voice to emphasize the difference between a command and other interactions, or the pups will assume everything he says is attention and therefore good. It’s positive reinforcement, or something like that. Pups are hard work.

“I’ll lock up,” he tells them. “You head off to bed.”

“Thank you, Yurio,” Viktor says.

“It’s nothing,’ Yuri spits back. And then he stops himself and puts on a sappy give-Yuri-an-Oscar voice, to say, “Least I can do for a good coach like you.” He blushes, but it’s dark and he’s staring at a wall -- hopefully Viktor won’t see it. God what was he thinking this is so ridiculous.

But Viktor’s breath hitches and he says, like a spasm “I’m trying so hard for you Yura.”

Yuri’s looked up to Viktor all his life, and yet somehow it’s been too hard to say ‘thank you for being my coach,’ only right now, with Viktor’s big eyes getting soggy, Yuri finds it is nothing to say, “You’re doing the best job, Viktor. Yuuri and I are the always the skaters to beat and it’s you that makes us that good.”

Viktor scoops him up into a hug and Yuri allows it for half a minute and then says, firmly, “That’s enough.” Viktor steps back straight away. He’s not offended, he’s vibrating with pleasure.

Yuuri says hopefully, “Do you really think I’m a skater to beat?”

This is harder, letting affection leak into these words. To let this show. This has been more strictly guarded. But Yuri Plisetsky is a goddamned professional. “‘Course you are, you dork, you’re THE skater to beat. Otabek says you’re a siren: your skating is the song the rest of us follow and try to catch and your talent is the rocks we will smash ourselves against.” Yuri definitely blushes then, but so does Yuuri so… mutually assured humiliation? “I don’t know why I’m friends with him, he’s so weird.”

Yuuri flings his arms around Yuri’s neck. Yuri scritches katsudon’s hair and then says commandingly, “That’s enough now.”

Yuuri lets go straight away.

Yuri grins. This may work.

Apparently, dogs need to know their place in the pack. Apparently, it will go more smoothly if they never challenge that Yuri is boss. Yuri needs to praise them for doing their job. Ick, well that can wait. 

In the meantime, Yuri offers to make his housemates cocoa. 

Yuuri looks at him like he hung the stars, and says, “That would be lovely.”

“It’s just cocoa, katsudon.”

Yuri makes the cocoa on the stove, whipping the cocoa and sugar into a paste before he adds milk, just like Grandpa makes it. He has to heat plain milk in another pot because Viktor likes his cooler than Yuuri and with a richer chocolate flavour. He pours out into their favourite mugs: poodle pattern for Viktor, chibi Yuri Plisetsky for Yuuri. Yuri hates all the Yuri Plisetsky merch the katsudon brings home, and at the beginning he may have accidently smashed or set fire to some of it, but Yuuri just keeps ordering new items online, squeeing when they arrive in the post. Honestly, is this how a 27 year old should behave? Yuri hasn’t even beaten him in the rankings the last three years. This season though, Yuri’s going to earn that fannish admiration if it kills him. 

Back in the living room, he hands the mugs to each man. “You don’t have to blow on it, I tasted it carefully and it’s just right for each of you.” It’s important a dog knows his place in the pack. Yuri needs his pups to know he had first access to the food.

“This is perfect,” Viktor exclaims. “I love how you never do anything by halves, Yurio,” His mouth has gone sappily heart shaped. He is so easy to please, what a loser.

Speaking of losers, katsudon is posting a pic of his cocoa on Insta. He’s captioning it, #therealyuri made me cocoa!!! and labeling it with love hearts and tagging it with #yurisangels and #bestskater #besthousemate. This is the same person who slays the competition on ice.

Yuri hopes loserism isn’t catching. He’s in close proximity to these dorks all the time.

He has to think carefully about --gross-- touching. Dogs need pats apparently. Stupid needful things. Dogs who know affection are less likely to disobey or play up out of boredom. Yuri decides touching in public is unnecessary, and when Viktor and Katsudon forget themselves outside the apartment, he uses a quiet, but inarguable, “Get off me.” And they do, get off him, every time.

Inside the apartment though, inside, he can bring himself to work the aches out of Viktor’s feet while they’re watching anime. He sits at the end of the sofa and Viktor at the other. They’re both leaning back against the arms with Viktor’s legs stretched out onto Yuri’s folded legs. Viktor looks so happy and Yuri thinks, it wasn’t even that much effort to get that happy look on his face. He needs to bring katsudon into this though. 

“Hey piggy!” he says to the curled up figure on the rug. Yuuri looks back at him and the colours of the tv screen slant dangerously across his glasses. “Can you braid my hair?” Yuri asks him.

“Yes,” is Yuuri’s eager, breathless response. He dashes away for a comb and hair ties, before he perches himself on the arm of the sofa behind Yuri and settles his calf muscles snug up along Yuri’s sides. His fingers dig gently through the strands of Yuri’s hair and even a slight tug is delicious. 

Soon no one is watching the anime but no one remarks on it or stops what they are doing. Yuri’s hands are the biggest and strongest in their house, and his thumbs dig into the meat of Viktor’s feet. Viktor is melting into the cushions. 

“Yura,” Viktor purrs. “So good.”

“Yeah, you like that?” Yurio says and then flushes red cos, damn, he’s not in a smutty fan fic.

Viktor though, doesn’t seem to notice. He just wriggles further into the cushions and sighs happily. 

When Yuuri has finished, he insists on taking photos on his phone. “I made you like a Viking in the Vikings show, Yurio, strong and fierce and scary.”

“Take your shirt off and pose,” the puddle-on-the-sofa-that-was-once-Viktor-Nikiforov suggests.

“Pretty sure Vikings wore clothes, Vitya. It was, and is, fucking cold in Scandinavia,” Yuri says. 

“Just one please, Yurio,” Yuuri pleads, “The angels will love it.”

Yuri attempts to stare him down, but for-fucks-sake those unfathomable eyes are like kryptonite. Shut up, Yuri could be Superman. Okay, well, the katsudon could bring a man to his knees, that’s for sure. “Okay pork cutlet, but this better not end up on a mug.” That’s it Yuri, retain absolute control here.

He peels his hoodie and shirt off and stands next to Yuuri’s potted maple ‘for authenticity purposes,’ Yuuri insists.

He scowls and Yuuri coos at him as he snaps shots from all angles. 

“Are we done?”

Yuuri is gazing reverently at his screen. “This one will make a great poster.”

“Wha..?” 

“You’ll get used to it,” Viktor advises, then adds, ruefully, “Until the next Russian skater comes along and all your posters get replaced with that skater’s.” 

Yuri smirks, and pretends to hide his face, only maybe he’s flexing his biceps a little. “I’m just hotter than you, old man.”

There’s a camera click and a kind of whimper, like a sign revving up, and Yuuri pants, “Oh now that’s going to be a great poster.”

“Wha…?”

Viktor laughs mockingly from the sofa.

It turns out to be easy to give Yuuri his job in the pack. They start down the street for the walk home after practise when Yuri overhears some of their rink-mates talking about him. 

“It’s such a pity,” he hears, “he used to be so pretty.”

“Now, such a giraffe, right? Lanky, bony, ugly.”

Yuri can’t be bothered to react. It’s all true. He grew fast, but still tends to hunch. And while his shoulders doubled in width, the rest of him lacks the grace of Viktor Nikiforov. His limbs are rebellious and often seem to dance a different program to the rest of his body. Yuri moves like an electric shock. It seems all the more chaotic for skating next to Yuuri, who moves fluidly like steam coiling off the onsen and is famous for his delicate, deliberate movements. 

...Movements that are currently rushing Yuri’s anti-fans with bulldog directness. And there is yelling. Katsuki Yuuri is yelling in the street. 

Yuri looks at Viktor, who stares back, eyes wide and jaw unflatteringly slack. 

“You are scum on the sole of this man’s shoe,” Yuuri is hissing at the stunned skaters. “Yuri Plisetsky is worth more than all of you and your families put together. Especially as you shame them with your ugly words, you disgrace yourselves with your poor judgement. This man will be the best skater of his generation and will be a hero in your country and win you many medals and you will be ashamed that you ever spoke badly of him.”

Yuuri is inches away from them now. Viktor has him restrained by the wrist. The streetlamps are reflecting violently off his glasses. He looks like a Hound of Hell. His voice has descended into an ominous rumble.

He says, “I will remember your faces.”

There is a stinging silence.

“We’re sorry,” one of the men says, getting up to back away. “We’re going to go.”

“Good luck to you Plisetsky,” says the other. Yuri flips them off.

Viktor wraps himself around Yuuri like he’s a vacumn pack and Yuuri is discounted meat, and enthuses, “You’re amazing, Yuuri. So brave!”

Yuuri’s head is down. He’s shaking. Viktor is battering him around in his triumphant praise.

Yuri puts his hand on Yuuri’s cheek, waits until he’s being observed by Yuuri’s apprehensive eyes, says, “You did well, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s eyes sink closed.

The next time a tabloid prints candids of Viktor, drunk and half dressed, accompanied by poisonous text that bandies about words like jealousy, washed-up, and failing coaching career, Yuri places his hand on Yuuri’s cheek, a deliberate duplication. “I think you should write an article about Viktor, piggy, you know him best. Let the world see the real Viktor, yes?” Yuri chuckles, “What does Otabek say, ‘the golden heart hid beneath silver hair?’ but your words, Yuuri. That’s all Viktor needs.”

Yuri’s pretty pleased about affirming Yuuri’s defensive position in their pack; amused, since the katsudon is quite unable to stick up for himself, but pleased. Until Mila makes him aware Yuuri’s been stalking both his and Viktor’s social media more thoroughly than usual to rip at anyone who makes a less than sterling comment. Oops, Yuri may have unleashed Yuuri’s inner fan-boy to nosebleed across the universe. 

Finding a pack job for Viktor that satisfies him is way more difficult. Viktor already coaches, manages and houses them. He choreographs for them. He’s already kind of a stand-in Dad. He’s been the Yuris' inspiration for so many years, they neither of them remember not having his star to shoot for. He’s pretty much the only reason they have any sort of social life, bar Otabek for Yuri and Phichit for Yuuri.

“Yura,” Viktor chirps. He’s brandishing a tablet. “Your sponsor has some wonderful perks for you.” The screen is displaying a range of very cool trainers, of which… “you can pick three,” Viktor informs him.

Yuri eyes his coach. “I asked for new skates.” It comes out surly, and sometimes Yuri is so sick of himself.

“Yes, yes,” says Viktor, “they have given you the skates but these are bonus.”

He’s beaming. Yuri’s suspicions are kicked into high alert. “They offered them to me? Or you made them think they offered them to me.”

“Oh,” says Viktor, “same, same.”

Otabek is right about Yuri having the soul of a soldier. He would forget about luxury if it wasn’t for Viktor. Sure, he knows great fashion, but it needs to land in his lap for him to acquire it. How does Viktor always manage to embellish the Yuris’ lives? 

This is Viktor’s genius. Yuri needs Viktor to know that this is his job.

Luckily, Viktor isn’t actually a dog, which means Yuri can be a bit sneaky.

“Have you seen this article?” Yuuri says, waving his magazine around. It’s an English language Skating magazine; Yuri is scowling at them from the cover. Yuuri’s fingers are twitching to reblog a scan of it on his Yuri-dedicated tumblr.

Yuri did the interview over the phone and the mag sent a local photographer to the rink, so the pics are mainly action shots with one or two well-lit, posed clicks of Yuri looking fierce by the lockers. 

“Is it the American one?” says Viktor, reaching for it.

“I’ll read it,” the katsudon says quickly, to keep his copy pristine and fingerprint free.

He begins to read. Yuri’s not sure he wants to be here for this.

It’s all very jovial at first. “Oooh, Yuri. Hot, young talent.” Viktor teases, repeating a phrase from the opening blurb.

The air gets thin and everyone gets still when they get to Yuri’s direct quotes.

 

_“I’m very aware of how lucky I am that Viktor agreed to be my coach,” says Plisetsky, from his home in St. Petersburg. “There are plenty of talented skaters. But I have access to Viktor Nikiforov’s genius and he helps me to develop up to his level to perform his choreography. And it’s not just my skating he elevates, he broadens my experiences -- I’d never lit a firecracker before hanging out with Viktor -- It’s hard to put into words, but Viktor… he’s what we each need, even if we need different things. He’s a cheerleader or a rock or an athlete or a master of interpretation. Wherever we are, he meets us halfway.”_

 

“Oh Yurio,” the katsudon says. 

Viktor is silent. And oh God there are tears, fat horrible tears. It’s like rain. What the hell does Yuri do now? There was nothing about tears on the dog training blogs. 

“You’ve got it so backwards, Yuratchka,” Viktor says. He’s barely understandable around the tears and the disgusting snotty nose. “It is me that is lucky. I don’t know what I’m doing; I’m making it all up as I go along…”

Yuri places his hand flat on Viktor’s collarbone and stares him straight in the eye. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Your ridiculous Viktor-ness is working. Don’t stop, okay old man?” 

Viktor nods. Then the katsudon makes them cuddle on the sofa. It’s awful. Yuri can only stand it for three episodes of that new gay ice-skating anime. 

It’s starting to make a difference though. Viktor and Yuuri stop yapping and stop touching him if he tells them firmly, stop or quiet. They leave off pushing food on him all the time, and start offering once and then being goofily satisfied when he eats something.

But some of it doesn’t work. Fetch is a disaster. Yuri’s stretched out on the couch one rest day and grunts, “Get me a coffee, pork cutlet.”

Yuuri bounces up and into the kitchen in an instant. 

Yuri frowns. He should feel triumphant or proud or at least pleased. He just feels shitty. Yuuri’s geared for service, growing up in a resort, and it just feels like a shitty win, like getting gold when two people in the draw were injured.

When Yuuri comes back with the coffee, Yuri takes it and waves his other arm impatiently to indicate a snuggle. Yuuri crawls right into the space between Yuri’s ribs and the arm.

“Viktor’ll be asleep for ages. D’ya want to come out to the pet store and look at the animals with me?” Yuri asks. “Or we could go to the skate park and you can watch me in the half pipe?”

“Yuri Plisetsky! Are you skateboarding so close to the season?”

“Sshh, god katsudon shut up. Jeeez, forget it. Let’s go look at the parrots and kittens.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Ssh, no. Don’t thank me. Ugh, like you don’t… Just don’t thank me for something like that.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says again.

It’s just the beginning. It gets worse after that. Pups are so much trouble to look after. 

Yuuri practises long after Viktor quits and goes to the rink cafe for a coffee and the heater. Yuri keeps training, but he stretches instead of pushing himself like the piggy. Yuri assesses the food on katsudon’s plate, at dinner that night, and is concerned whether the piggy is getting enough protein. He selects the best pieces of stuffed carp and puts them on Yuuri’s plate. He writes to his Grandpa --snail mail, get with the times Grandpa -- and gets his golubtsi recipe, so he can make them with lean turkey and make sure Yuuri eats. 

In the letter, Grandpa mentions his cholesterol level has come down now he’s gone back to eating oat porridge in the morning. Yuri realises he has an old man of his own to worry about, that Viktor is a coach now and not an athlete. Yuri gets up a bit early to make sure there is porridge prepared for their breakfast and buys salmon off-season and takes fatty meat off Viktor’s plate and replaces it with the biggest pieces of beetroot and broccoli. 

They notice of course. 

“I’m just making sure you don’t cark it before I’ve won an Olympics, old man,” Yuri tells Viktor with casual indifference. This is fair. After all, Viktor is over 30! 

Yuri is working on his new routine with Viktor. They can see Yuuri in the centre of the ice practising the quad flip. It’s been a solid jump for him for years, but today he keeps touching down, or falling, or popping it. 

“Time to practise something else, Yuuri,” Viktor calls to him. But Yuuri sets his jaw in place and shit, Yuri knows that look. The piggy begins the lead in to the flip. He double foots the landing, punches himself in the leg and skates around in the same pattern to begin the attempt again. Yuri’s legs are moving fast, he’s left Viktor and conscious thought behind, and he skates to Yuuri and catches him before he builds up too much speed. He’s gripping the piggy’s shoulders too tight; Yuuri makes a pained exhale. They skid to a stop. Yuri places his forehead against Yuuri’s and lets him match the pace of Yuri’s breathing for a while. Yuri’s much taller than his Japanese counterpart now, not quite as tall as Viktor dammit, but his neck has to stretch and drop to rest where it is. Yuuri’s gloved hands have slipped up to grip at Yuri’s shirt by his hips and Yuri would stab every anxious thought the katsudon ever had if he could. Slowly, Yuuri goes from wobbly, weak sucks of breath and eases into an even roll. 

“Get the hell out of the way,” yells Mila pleasantly. 

“Fuck you Hag,” Yurio calls back, but Yuuri is smiling at him, small and hopeful, and Yuri’s insult comes out around a responding smile. 

“Wanna try again, katsudon? Or do something fun?”

“Let’s do copycat?”

Yuri nods. “You start,” he says and pushes off to follow Yuuri around the rink. Yuuri does a step sequence from his free program two seasons ago and Yuri rolls his eyes and copies. He doesn’t even need to wait for the end of the sequence. Yuuri does a Bielmann and Yuri scoffs and copies. Round they go, Yuuri first then Yuri, getting closer in proximity and closer in timing until they are near to skating side-by-side and in unison. Yuri catches Viktor’s expression as they skate past him. He’s so proud, their coach is so proud of them. Viktor doesn’t seem to feel jealousy, not even in Viktor’s last two seasons when he was skating against his pupil and Katsuki Yuuri kept beating him. He likes to win, but only if he deserves it. It’s a singularity Yuri thinks makes Viktor God-like, because Yuri feels his own failures like brands: the pain consuming in the moment and the scars stark and shiny for the rest of time. Thank goodness, Viktor’ll inevitably forget a promise or say something insensitive, and Yuri can remember he’s just a man after all. 

Sometimes it’s easier when Viktor’s being superior though.

“Yuri,” Otabek’s voice bites into Yuri’s rising concern. They’re in Toronto; he and Otabek both were assigned Skate Canada. “You’re not listening. Something wrong?”

“Sorry Beka,” Yuri scans him quickly; he’s fine. “I think I need to…” He indicates Viktor holding court with reporters. Viktor’s jaw looks tight. It’s worrying Yuri. 

“Trouble?”

Viktor has a certain way of tossing his hair off his face. Normally, it’s grand, with the assurance and freedom of a horse. The movement travels down his whole back, as if he doesn’t remember he no longer has long hair. This toss was sideways. It’s evasive. Yuri says, “Could you find Yuuri please?” and mows into the reporters without waiting for an answer.

“Viktor, stop being so gracious,” he says, churlish, “We have things we need to take care of.”

The reporters spin toward him. Yuri catches a flare of relief on Viktor’s face before he quells it.

“Mr Plisetsky, what needs to be taken care of?”

“Mr Plisetsky, how do you view your chances in this competition?”

“Mr Plisetsky, do you not feel you should share the limelight with your coach?”

Yuri usually sets the pace when they walk, Viktor and Yuuri tucked in at his 4 and 8, but today he cups Viktor’s elbow and guides him forward. He can tell when Viktor needs attention and when he doesn’t want it. “I’ll answer your questions tomorrow,” Yuri promises the journalists in his wake.

They meet with Otabek and Yuuri, who takes Yuri’s place at Viktor’s elbow as smooth as if they’d practised it. Yuuri should be home training and is here against the advice of his coach, but Yuri thinks he looks cute in his cat’s ears and Yuri Plisetsky bomber jacket.

“What do you think coach? Early night?” 

“That would be most sensible,” says Viktor, but he almost ruins it by laughing. Yuuri nudges him in the side and they leave the arena for their hotel.

Yuri tears up the competition. Of course, it’s easier to get on the podium when the pork cutlet bowl isn’t on the ice with him.

“Let’s order Champagne!’ Viktor trills. His shirt is half unbuttoned and falling off one shoulder. His jacket is under the table on the floor of the flash restaurant they’re in. 

“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” says Yuuri. He’s still eating; years after being in Viktor’s orbit and he still eats like it’s his last chance to partake.

“I’ll get it,” Viktor says. He de-suctions his limpet hold on Yuri and starts to stand.

“Viktor, sit down,” Yuri barks. Viktor sits down. “Why do you want Champagne?” Yuri asks him. 

“I want to celebrate. You got a medal,” Viktor is pouting. It’s Yuri’s indicator, the pout rather than a tight jaw; tonight Viktor wants attention.

“I challenge you,” says Yuri, and Viktor perks up, sitting very straight. “Dance off,” declares Yuri, “You. Me. The piggy. Winner gets to wear my medal home. Otabek will judge, right Beka?”

“I’ll be harsh but fair.”

Yuri strips his jacket off and hangs it off the back of his chair, tugs Yuuri to the dance floor --Viktor is already there-- and whispers, “Look at the beautiful man, piggy, our coach. Shall we dance to please him?”

There is a smile Yuuri has. They hardly ever see it, but it’s there right now. It’s not big, but there are no shadows skulking in it. The Yuris dance in tandem around their idol. Then Yuuri moves in and flings Viktor around him like a matador’s cape. Viktor gets this gorgeous concentrated mien like when he was skating. He’s having the time of his life, and it sparks Yuri up inside like a firecracker. 

Yuuri spins out and tags Yuri in. 

He takes a different approach than the katsudon who leads and drapes Viktor over him like the prettiest decoration.

Yuri dances like a black hole. He dances down low and centred and he brings Viktor swirling inexorably into him. Yuri doesn’t so much dance like no one is watching; he dances like everyone else in the world can go fuck themselves. Except Viktor tonight, and the gravity of being the nucleus of Yuri’s focus is grounding Viktor, easing him to stillness.

Viktor’s gaze is like ice chips in fruit punch, the only sharp thing in his face and fading fast. Yuri throws his free arm around the katsudon. “I think you won Viktor,” he says. “Time for home?”

“I won?” Viktor winks. It’s kind of sloppy. “I get to wear the medal, isn’t that right?” At the table, Yuuri fetches Viktor’s jacket and Otabek loops the ribbon of Yuri’s medal over Viktor’s neck. 

“Want to come back for a while?” Yuri asks Otabek.

Otabek shakes his head, murmurs discretely, “I think you might have your hands full tonight.” He jerks his head to where Viktor is trying to pull Yuuri to the bar. 

Every now and then Viktor wants to be told no, he wants to be contained. Yuri’s still not sure he’s large enough to hold THE Viktor Nikiforov, if only for the evening, but there isn’t anyone else and Viktor needs it.

“Viktor, Yuuri, wait!” Yuri’s voice strikes out across the restaurant. It collars Viktor and Yuuri and they stand still; Viktor fidgeting and swinging the medal, Yuuri wrapping a scarf around himself. 

Yuri and Otabek bump fists, and Otabek says, “Congratulations,” but Yuri is not sure he means the medal. 

“See you tomorrow, Beka,” Yuri says, then, “Okay let’s go,” to the others. Viktor and Yuuri gamble to the door but stop short when they get there, waiting until Yuri goes through before they follow, grinning to each other.

They’ll go back to the suite and Yuri will hold Yuuri’s hand, while they watch tv or watch Viktor creating new program themes out of that curious head of his. Yuri will have to soak entire Viktor-directed phrases in a drippy, loving timbre until it doesn’t sound like an insult at all. 

But, yeah, Yuri’s totally got his pups trained, don’t worry about him.


End file.
